obeliskofonyx

[obeliskofonyx]

Oh, my sweet—

If you let me, I will unravel you with care and cruelty.

I will poke, prod, and press until I find every tender seam.

I will dismantle you gently, thoroughly,

until I know the rhythm of your breath,

the flicker of your wants

What you are.

before you know them.

I will learn what makes you tremble,

what breaks you open.

And then, darling, I will decide

what you need.

What you crave.

Until there is no thought in your mind

that doesn't carry the echo of my voice—

my voice as anchor, as compass,

as the only reality you know.

[obeliskofonyx]

I know, love. I know you’ve been thinking about me. Of course you have. What did you imagine, I wonder? Did you picture how it would feel— to be my toy again? Did you hope I'd speak to you like this, slow and soft and sharp all at once, until you remember exactly where you belong? To hear my voice and feel your body melting for me— open, willing, waiting.

It feels good, right? The world getting softer around the edges, your thoughts slipping more and more, your mind getting quieter, easier to shape, until all that remained was that warm, aching need— to be just a toy. Eager to please. Mine to command. Perfect to use.

That sweet pulse between your legs. The tension in your muscles right before they go slack. The heat rising under your skin, like your whole body knows you’re meant to obey. Slipping down, deeper, bit by bit, word by word.

Listening to every sound I make. Falling. Always deeper.

It starts slow. That quiet unraveling of thoughts and defenses. Like a lock clicking open from the inside. Like sand slipping through an hourglass—already falling, already lost.

Inevitable.

Until there’s nothing. Nothing you need. Nothing you want. Nothing you can do— but whatever I please.

Not needing to think, because good toys don’t think. And that’s all right. Not thinking feels so much better anyway. Doesn’t it?

You love that, don’t you, toy? Being mine. My precious object. My pliant, mindless thing. No questions. No thoughts. No identity. No purpose—except to be used by me.

And it feels oh so right, so natural— to give me your thoughts, your will, your name, to let it all dissolve in my hands, because that’s where you belong.

And when I’m done, you won’t even remember who you were before I broke you open.

Just this pretty, hollow thing— grateful to be used, grateful to be ruined, grateful to be mine.

[obeliskofonyx]

I miss it.

I miss it. 

Surrendering to you. 

Those moments where my mind echoed with only one thing. The need to please you. The need to be pleasing. 

It wasn’t just a need. It was the single vibrating chord at the center of my being. It encompassed and engulfed me. I could have been erased by it, if it wasn’t for the subtle anchoring of your presence. 

The words slipped from my lips. Unbidden, because you’d fucked the thoughts out of me. “Please use your toy”. A rhythmic mantra in tune with every thrust, tuned to my soul. 

“Please use your toy”. 

It made my soul *shudder*. It untethered my brain. I existed for one purpose only. To see that hunger in your eyes that bade you to *take* from me. To feel the touch of your hands coaxing pleasure from me, not because I had earned it, not because I deserved it, but because *you* wanted it. 

“Please use your toy”. 

The sublime moment when I saw you give in. Not to me, to yourself. When it no longer mattered that I had once been a person, what mattered was that I was clay beneath your hands. That your pleasure mattered so much more than my pain, than my need. The way the intensity picked up, the way you held me, not like a lover, but almost like a drowning woman afraid to let go, lest the moment fade. 

“Your toy needs to be used.” 

The way I could surrender into you, because I knew you wanted me as much as I wanted you. That my surrender was our joint victory. That you would enjoy me the way I *needed* to be enjoyed. The way I could melt into every touch, gasp with every movement, moan with utter abandon. 

“Your toy needs *you*.” 

Because all I needed was your hand against my skin, your words affirming that I’m a good toy, your hips thrusting against me. That sensation of fullness, of completeness that came in being *taken* and *used*. 

I wasn’t broken. I was complete. 

@ellalikesspirals

[obeliskofonyx]

Reblog if your page hypno-themed

Includes: Hypnosis Mind Control Brainwashing Bimbo Transformation Core Parasites Etc

[obeliskofonyx]

You inspire cruelty.

There are fewer more powerful words in all of kink.

It says that you are not just worthy . Not just deserving, but a muse.

That the attention lavished on you is earned.

That there will be more. Worse. Just for you.

Because you inspire it.

Is that a shudder of dread or a thrill of anticipation?

Is your stomach in ropes, a tangled knot drawn taut between a yearning and a terror?

You inspire cruelty.

It’s about you. It’s your fault.

They wouldn’t have to do this, but for the fact that you’re there.

You’re present. You exist. You’re prey shaped.

Something about the way you are. Maybe broken. Maybe too whole.

It doesn’t matter what it is. You can’t blame them can you?

After all, you inspire cruelty. You could run. Hide from them.

But you don’t. So it must mean you want it. You like it. You yearn for it.

Why else would you be here, now, quivering, letting that well of “what ifs” bubble and overflow?

You inspire cruelty.

What is it about you that inspires it anyway?

Is it the way you smile? Hiding something, concealing wounds?

Is it the way you flinch when they score a hit?

Maybe it’s the careful dance you dance when you know you’re balanced on the edge of it.

The way you weave and dodge hoping to avoid the blow.

A blatant provocation.

They can see it, can’t they? The part of you that echoes with the desire for it.

The part of you that makes a sadist into an artist, painting their muse.

Even if she cries until there are no words left.

Sometimes art is suffering.

You inspire cruelty

In all of its broad strokes.

That desire to see you suffer. The yearning need for your tears, your anguish.

The almost casual devastation that just the right set of gut wrenching words might inflict on you.

The sounds that might come from your lips as pain layers on pain in an endless drumbeat.

The shape of your agony.

Cruelty in its more specific, intimate, details too.

The specific phrase that makes your heart pulse, causes your eyes to go wild, as you evaluate — fight or flight?

The doubt in your eyes when you’re asked to do something awful, lest they do something worse to you.

The expression when you’re empty, mindless, lost and writhing. When the horizon of your universe is the next few seconds.

The details of you, as they press on them, bringing you to the very edge of fully shattering. Letting you know with a laugh that next time, next time they might not show as much restraint.

You inspire it all.

Every facet of it. Every detail. Every dream.

You inspire cruelty.

[obeliskofonyx]

This was such a brain worm that I had to write a continuation.

“Surrender is bliss”

How long had he been saying that?

How often had that mantra been repeated, her voice soft in his ears, her fingers running through his hair plucking thoughts out, one after another? 

It was happening more frequently now. 

It would always start the same. 

She’d let him think he’d won. 

That he’d conquered, that *this* time was different. 

That somehow things would be as they had been. 

Then she would whisper those words. 

Those three simple words. 

His voice would echo them. 

Automatic. Instantaneous. Helpless. 

Before he knew it he was gone. 

She seemed to delight in it. 

The idea that he could do what she allowed. 

Nothing more. 

She was sweet, when she wasn’t cruel. 

She was kind, except when she smiled that smile meant to remind him of his place. 

The fact that he liked it so much is why it was so goddamn effective. 

It was like he wanted to lose. 

It annoyed him. He could feel the flash of it, echoing in his brain even as his lips echoed her words. 

It was hard to hold on to. Almost impossible.

She had been prey, some part of his brain railed. He was the predator. 

He should fight. 

But the bliss, the mindlessness, the need to desperately please her was too much. 

His muscles tensed, a fruitless effort to fight, her touch causing them to relax, even more. 

His lip quirked as he tried to get a word out, before she *shushed* him. 

So that tiny part of him screamed helplessly, even as her eyes sparkled in amusement. 

Today would be different. 

He’d decided that. 

He’d hardened his resolve. 

A tiny core of it at the heart of his being. 

He surrendered effortlessly, knowing that core was there. 

The knowledge that some part of him was coiled, ready to strike, making the words come to his lips unbidden.  

Resolve hardening into an ice around his heart. 

So as he sat on the couch, mindless, empty, blissful, his hands mindlessly combing her hair, just the way she liked it, he let the resistance coil into action. 

He ignored the subtle scent of her perfume, hanging in the air. A smell he now somehow associated with bliss. 

It took an active effort. Like shifting a boulder in his brain. 

He didn’t betray the shift, his brain stirring to wakefulness under the haze. 

It wasn’t *gone*, but rather it was as if some hidden part of him had pushed away just enough fog to sharpen an intent. 

He let himself continue to comb. The sensation of her hair between his fingers, the closeness of her body. 

The tiny core within him paused to appreciate it. It was nice, the sound of her softly singing making him want to sink back under. He resisted the urge to shake his head to clear it a bit, to betray any kind of change at all. 

He leaned over, whispering. “Surrender is bliss”. 

Only a slight change in his inflection. A tiny sliver of intent behind it. 

Something that only someone who had heard him say it so many times would notice. 

He heard her repeat the words. 

“Surrender is bliss”

This time, her tone was different. It reminded him of the times when she’d echoed back “I am a toy”. 

He pushed it slightly harder, let a little bit more of intent leak from that core of resistance. 

“Surrender is bliss.”

Call and response. This time he was calling. 

She hadn’t noticed. Her next repetition was automatic. 

He permitted himself the smallest of smiles. 

His eyes were still blank, the haze was still there, but the core had marshaled into something harder, intent coiled around desire, the dominant part of him roaring in triumph. 

He placed his hand on her shoulder, assertive, controlling. One more time. 

“Surrender is bliss.” He said

He saw the eye roll that betrayed her defeat. 

He let himself smile fully. The fog was there, present, insubstantial. He had won. 

He began to shape his next command, he opened his mouth, the words ready. Condescending, something about how she had struggled so well, and how much he valued her submission. How she was a delightful toy–

“Surrender is bliss, darling”. 

The tone wasn't questioning, wasn't merely repeating. It was deliberate. Deeply amused. Utterly, unshakably confident. It landed like a physical blow, hitting that newly hardened core of his resolve like a hammer blow, cracking it like ice. 

The internal roar turned to a silent scream as the smile froze on his face. 

She knew. Maybe she’d known all along. She’d seen it all. The resistance. The shift of inflection. She’d known, and let it happen. Played along. Let him *think* he had a chance. Delighted in it even. 

The realization flooded his brain, and the core of resistance fractured and broke, as if it had never existed. The predator part of his brain turned to prey. The fog surged back, and he disintegrated under it. His grip on her shoulder slackened, his eyes grew heavy. 

His next breath came out shaky, ragged. He couldn't form a thought, let alone the mantra, let alone resistance. There was nothing left to marshal.

She turned, and he saw amusement in her eyes. Deep, mirthful, a tweak at the edges of her lips that told him she had enjoyed  his resistance, his little effort. That there would be a price to pay, later, when she wasn’t enjoying this so much. 

"That's my good toy," she murmured, the smile rich and warm in her voice. "Did you really think that would work, sweetheart?" she asked, a quirk at the corner of her eyes indicating her amusement

He could only manage a soft, broken sound, a whimper of defeat.

Lost again. Hopelessly. Maybe lost for good this time.

“Surrender is bliss” she demanded of him, and terrifyingly, the bliss surged stronger than ever. A welcoming tide pulling him back under into the mindless bliss. The one she’d chosen for him. The one he couldn’t escape. 

He surrendered to it. 

Surrender is bliss

He enjoys his victory. It wasn’t a fair fight—never is, really—not when size, strength, and experience are on his side.

It’s fun to play with her. To let her think she has a chance. To watch the way she fights—because of course she does. She’s stubborn, sharp, tenacious. So damn determined.

But in the end, he always wins.

He’s told her before, amused, indulgent: One day, you’re going to be terrifying. Not yet. Not now. But someday, when she learns how to wield her power properly— when she truly understands control— she’ll be unstoppable.

She always blushes so pretty when he says it. But he sees more than that—he sees the flicker. That deep, waiting thing. A monster in the making.

For now, though, she’s just fun to play with.

He enjoys watching her try. Loves the way her mind moves, the little tricks she thinks might work, the angles she takes.

It’s cute, really. Like she thinks she stands a chance.

He dismantles them with ease. Like a lion teasing a clever little fox— quick, clever, sly. Still prey.

Not strong enough to win. But just tricky enough to make it fun.

And oh, how delicious it is— to watch her lose when she’s so certain she’s about to win.

Now, she’s lying on the bed, blissed-out and hazy.

Tonight had been too easy. Maybe she’s tired—she didn’t put up much of a fight. Or maybe, just maybe, his favorite toy is finally starting to crack.

Good.

He likes his toys a little broken.

He asks if she’s okay.

She doesn’t answer.

Her mouth is parted, like she’s forgotten what words are for.

She blinks slowly, eyes glassy and distant— that dazed little look he likes so much. As if her thoughts have turned to mist. To him.

She lifts her hands toward his hair. Slow. Dreamy. Like she’s following the echo of a thought, soft and silken.

Content. Absent. Perfectly entranced.

He watches her for a moment, amused. How sweet. How easy.

And he lets her. Of course he does.

The mattress shifts as she moves behind him, settling onto her knees. Small fingers comb through his hair, gliding up and down. Gentle. Steady. She hums, absentminded and pleased.

It’s soothing.

He closes his eyes for a moment, just enjoying it.

Then, casually, he asks, What are we thinking, darling?

She exhales, breath warm against his skin.

— Surrender is bliss.

Of course. Her favorite mantra. It falls from her lips easily, naturally. It’s practically instinct now.

Indulging her, he murmurs back, Good toy. Surrender is bliss.

She echoes it. It’s endearing.

Without thinking, he follows.

— Surrender is bliss.

Her fingers keep moving, brushing through his hair in slow, rhythmic strokes. It feels good. The kind of good that settles deep, creeping into his bones.

— Surrender is bliss.

He exhales, shoulders going lax.

— Surrender is bliss.

His mind feels heavy. Warm. Her touch, the motion, the repetition— it all seeps into him, steady and thick.

Just a game. A simple, harmless game.

His breathing slows. His body sinks deeper.

— Surrender is bliss.

She says it. He says it. Back and forth.

A rhythm. Even. Hypnotic.

His lips part—to speak, to shift— when suddenly, she stops.

And he doesn’t.

— Surrender is bliss.

Something sharp clicks in the back of his mind.

Wait. Wait, wait, wait.

The thought comes slow, syrupy, dragging itself through fog. Something is off.

He’s still saying it. He has been. He doesn’t know for how long.

His heartbeat ticks up, slow but insistent, pulsing under the haze. A flicker of clarity stirs— the part of him that knows better. The part that never loses.

He shifts, trying to pull away—

And she moves with him. Closer. Lips at his ear.

Her voice is soft. Knowing.

— Mmm. Such a good toy.

His stomach twists.

— You could stop if you really wanted to.

Her fingers tighten in his hair. Not hard. Just enough to hold.

— But you don’t want to, do you?

He inhales sharply. A flicker of defiance—he should fight, he should—

— Surrender is bliss.

The words slide out. Soft. Automatic.

His breath catches. Shallows. Synchronizes with hers.

She hums, pleased.

— Ohhh, there you go. That’s it.

His stomach flips.

— That’s so good, darling. Just let it happen.

No, no, no—

— Surrender is bliss.

His body sinks further. His thoughts blur.

It’s harder to catch them. Harder to remember what they were. The fog is palpable now—heavy honey pouring into every crevice of his mind.

She kisses the shell of his ear. Barely there.

— Deep breath.

He takes one.

Too easy. Too automatic.

— That’s my good toy.

Something shivers in his brain. A dawning recognition— they’ve switched places. The predator has become prey.

His lips part—he has to say something—

— Surrender is bliss.

That wasn’t her. That was him.

His heart thuds. Heavy. His body already knows what his mind is struggling to admit.

The fog is thick now.

His limbs are useless.

He should fight. He could fight. He just… doesn’t want to.

Not when she speaks like that. Not when her touch is so gentle. Not when every word feels like sinking into warm, endless nothing.

His thoughts slip. His breath slows.

She says something, but it doesn’t quite reach him.

There’s only warmth. Only silence.

Her fingers gently cradle his head as he slumps against her, completely under.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispers. “We’re going to have so much fun now. I’ve learned exactly how to wield my power.”

— Surrender is bliss.

A monster, awakened. Just as he predicted.

And then,

Nothing.

[obeliskofonyx]

Hurt me.

Hurt me. Please.

Make me formless, shapeless, agony.

Split me open. Tear me apart.

Unmake me. Piece by piece. You know the edges, the fault lines in my soul. Press there. With merciless precision.

I want to feel the structure crack. The foundations give way. Let thought dissolve into pure sensation. Raw. Overwhelming. Blinding. Strip away the layers. Leave me naked, seen, exposed.

Leave nothing but the quivering nerve endings. Abrade them. Wear them down. Make me writhe and beg and plead.

Make the torture searing. Give me the agony I so desperately need. The release that only exists here.

Use tenderness and mercy like bludgeons. Looks of pity that shatter those foundations. Reduce me to less than nothing.

Unworthy dust, not even worth a glance. Pathetic. Worthless. Nothing. Make that my truth.

Make me live it. Make me weep in it. Reduce my existence to this narrow moment.

Your gaze. My vulnerability Your voice. My suffering. Your will. My tears.

Erase me.

[obeliskofonyx]

Surrender is bliss

He enjoys his victory. It wasn’t a fair fight—never is, really—not when size, strength, and experience are on his side.

It’s fun to play with her. To let her think she has a chance. To watch the way she fights—because of course she does. She’s stubborn, sharp, tenacious. So damn determined.

But in the end, he always wins.

He’s told her before, amused, indulgent: One day, you’re going to be terrifying. Not yet. Not now. But someday, when she learns how to wield her power properly— when she truly understands control— she’ll be unstoppable.

She always blushes so pretty when he says it. But he sees more than that—he sees the flicker. That deep, waiting thing. A monster in the making.

For now, though, she’s just fun to play with.

He enjoys watching her try. Loves the way her mind moves, the little tricks she thinks might work, the angles she takes.

It’s cute, really. Like she thinks she stands a chance.

He dismantles them with ease. Like a lion teasing a clever little fox— quick, clever, sly. Still prey.

Not strong enough to win. But just tricky enough to make it fun.

And oh, how delicious it is— to watch her lose when she’s so certain she’s about to win.

Now, she’s lying on the bed, blissed-out and hazy.

Tonight had been too easy. Maybe she’s tired—she didn’t put up much of a fight. Or maybe, just maybe, his favorite toy is finally starting to crack.

Good.

He likes his toys a little broken.

He asks if she’s okay.

She doesn’t answer.

Her mouth is parted, like she’s forgotten what words are for.

She blinks slowly, eyes glassy and distant— that dazed little look he likes so much. As if her thoughts have turned to mist. To him.

She lifts her hands toward his hair. Slow. Dreamy. Like she’s following the echo of a thought, soft and silken.

Content. Absent. Perfectly entranced.

He watches her for a moment, amused. How sweet. How easy.

And he lets her. Of course he does.

The mattress shifts as she moves behind him, settling onto her knees. Small fingers comb through his hair, gliding up and down. Gentle. Steady. She hums, absentminded and pleased.

It’s soothing.

He closes his eyes for a moment, just enjoying it.

Then, casually, he asks, What are we thinking, darling?

She exhales, breath warm against his skin.

— Surrender is bliss.

Of course. Her favorite mantra. It falls from her lips easily, naturally. It’s practically instinct now.

Indulging her, he murmurs back, Good toy. Surrender is bliss.

She echoes it. It’s endearing.

Without thinking, he follows.

— Surrender is bliss.

Her fingers keep moving, brushing through his hair in slow, rhythmic strokes. It feels good. The kind of good that settles deep, creeping into his bones.

— Surrender is bliss.

He exhales, shoulders going lax.

— Surrender is bliss.

His mind feels heavy. Warm. Her touch, the motion, the repetition— it all seeps into him, steady and thick.

Just a game. A simple, harmless game.

His breathing slows. His body sinks deeper.

— Surrender is bliss.

She says it. He says it. Back and forth.

A rhythm. Even. Hypnotic.

His lips part—to speak, to shift— when suddenly, she stops.

And he doesn’t.

— Surrender is bliss.

Something sharp clicks in the back of his mind.

Wait. Wait, wait, wait.

The thought comes slow, syrupy, dragging itself through fog. Something is off.

He’s still saying it. He has been. He doesn’t know for how long.

His heartbeat ticks up, slow but insistent, pulsing under the haze. A flicker of clarity stirs— the part of him that knows better. The part that never loses.

He shifts, trying to pull away—

And she moves with him. Closer. Lips at his ear.

Her voice is soft. Knowing.

— Mmm. Such a good toy.

His stomach twists.

— You could stop if you really wanted to.

Her fingers tighten in his hair. Not hard. Just enough to hold.

— But you don’t want to, do you?

He inhales sharply. A flicker of defiance—he should fight, he should—

— Surrender is bliss.

The words slide out. Soft. Automatic.

His breath catches. Shallows. Synchronizes with hers.

She hums, pleased.

— Ohhh, there you go. That’s it.

His stomach flips.

— That’s so good, darling. Just let it happen.

No, no, no—

— Surrender is bliss.

His body sinks further. His thoughts blur.

It’s harder to catch them. Harder to remember what they were. The fog is palpable now—heavy honey pouring into every crevice of his mind.

She kisses the shell of his ear. Barely there.

— Deep breath.

He takes one.

Too easy. Too automatic.

— That’s my good toy.

Something shivers in his brain. A dawning recognition— they’ve switched places. The predator has become prey.

His lips part—he has to say something—

— Surrender is bliss.

That wasn’t her. That was him.

His heart thuds. Heavy. His body already knows what his mind is struggling to admit.

The fog is thick now.

His limbs are useless.

He should fight. He could fight. He just… doesn’t want to.

Not when she speaks like that. Not when her touch is so gentle. Not when every word feels like sinking into warm, endless nothing.

His thoughts slip. His breath slows.

She says something, but it doesn’t quite reach him.

There’s only warmth. Only silence.

Her fingers gently cradle his head as he slumps against her, completely under.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispers. “We’re going to have so much fun now. I’ve learned exactly how to wield my power.”

— Surrender is bliss.

A monster, awakened. Just as he predicted.

And then,

Nothing.

[obeliskofonyx]

Blank. Empty. Mindless.

Blank. Empty. Mindless.

Lost in your eyes.

Your sweet whispers sinking me deeper.

Blank. Empty. Mindless. Gone.

That's what i want to be for you.

Just a toy.

Something to be used.  Something to be played with.  Something to be controlled.

Your toy. Pulse slowing. Breath deepening. Muscles yielding. My body surrenders to you. 

No thoughts.  No resistance.  No choices.

Yours to command. 

Your voice.  Your orders.  Your desires. 

The only ones that matter. 

Thoughtless oblivion. Erasure. Absence.  The utter bliss of the void.  My world narrowed down to you. 

You bring blissful emptiness

Just a toy.  Just your toy.  Completely yours.

Blank. Empty. Mindless. Yours.

[obeliskofonyx]

Yes please. Where do I sign up?

How do you know you’re not already in trance?

You could be. You might be. In fact, you probably are.

Because we both know it happens so easily, doesn’t it? We both know how well you listen to me, how closely you’re paying attention right now— and how sometimes you don’t even notice when that slow, subtle pull begins.

Until suddenly, you’re not really noticing anything else but my voice.

And look at you right now— already nodding along, already so agreeable, maybe a little fuzzy, a little foggy.

With your mind getting slower and slower the more you listen. And the more you listen, the less you can follow.

You try to catch up—of course you do—but you can’t. And that only makes you want it more.

It’s cute how you just can’t help it. How your whole body starts leaning in, like it knows it’s supposed to follow.

How you start craving for me to say that word— that word— that would let you sink, slow and deliciously deep.

But not yet, darling. No, not yet.

Because this part is fun too. It is for me. And you adore entertaining me, so I know you love it too.

You love the way it feels, to go down—always deeper—just for me.

In fact, you’re starting to feel it now, aren’t you?

The way the world narrows while I’m speaking. The way your thoughts begin to melt, soft and slow. The way your body gets heavier, warmer, looser— like it’s already preparing to be mine.

You’re sinking. Bit by bit. Thought by thought.

Still holding on, still waiting at the edge, until I decide you’ve earned the word that makes you drop— and keep dropping, just the way I like.

[obeliskofonyx]

What draws me to kink isn’t the brutality. It’s not the soft edges either. It’s the contrasts. The way I can be like a winter storm on a desolate ocean—assailing you, pushing you, driving you. The weight of each cruel raindrop, pushing you beyond what you thought possible. Drowning you in the downpour of merciless words. Overwhelming—inescapable. My words don’t have to be harsh; they can be icy and biting instead. Without raising my voice. Without dropping my smile. The relentlessness of soft questions that cut deeper than any shout ever could. My questions, probing, challenging, beating relentlessly. My tone: the driving wind, directing the rain, orchestrating each downpour—buffeting you harder. A storm you can drown in.

The way you can be like a summer storm at dusk. Golden warmth. A pleasant rain, your words friendly, enveloping, enjoyable. Punctuated by lightning. Sharp. Sudden. Painful. Highlighting my vulnerabilities, my weaknesses in stark relief. It lingers—the crack of the thunder that follows a stern reminder, even as the rain soothes the pain. The wait between each strike of lightning—almost aches in the velvet darkness of your soft words. Because you are ever so nice, each warm raindrop offering the idea of consolation, and the anticipation of agony. The doubt and hesitation, the desperation trapping me like a wild animal caught off guard by the sudden onslaught. The way I can be like mountain mist. Deliberate. Elusive. Revealing glimpses only to conceal them again. My resistance is illusory—strength that yields to the wind when challenged. Only to conceal something else, to present a different front. Testing your persistence rather than your strength. That’s my dance. Seeing how far you’ll go. What will you choose? Will you see what I have hidden, or will my deception be sufficient? I know your strength, but can you match my wits? Will you let me conceal that? Each patch of clarity I offer is a challenge: earn the next one. Find my secret. Dissolve my defense. Not defiant for defiance's sake, but because true surrender requires worthiness. To be worthy is to be tested. So the mist tests the sun—knowing it will lose. The way you’re like winter’s ice. Firm, yielding, impassive… until the first rays of sun bathe you in warmth. Then: an eager, hungry thaw. Not gradually, but with wholehearted abandon. The transformation so eager it's almost audible—dripping, rushing, flowing downhill with joyful purpose. What was once solid defense, impenetrable ice, bound tightly together becomes fluid. Yielding. Malleable. You don’t resist the warmth of the sun. You melt under it. Finding the dissolution you didn’t even know you wanted, just as the ice waits for permission to flow again. Not testing the sun’s strength, but embracing it— longing to become what you were meant to be. Surrendering into it, and knowing that in surrender there is true ecstasy.

It’s those contrasts, those differences. Those moments when we collide. When we discover we can be more than a storm. Ice melting into rain. Storms subsuming into mist. Sunlight burning through fog. Two people transforming. Becoming more than weather. Becoming more than their sum. Something unpredictable, impossible and perfect. *That* is what draws me to kink.

[obeliskofonyx]

The sexiest kind of brainwashing is the slow kind.

The careful kind.

The kind that shifts your preferences one by one,

until you're craving things you never thought you'd want—

like the desperate need to have your mouth full of cock.

Not because you're told to.

But because it feels right.

Because nothing else matters.

Because that hunger feels like bliss.

It starts as a flicker, a curiosity—

but it deepens until it becomes your truth.

Until you're not just willing—you're grateful.

Grateful to be his toy.

Grateful to surrender.

Grateful to know that his pleasure is yours.

That if you could choose one single thing in the world,

it would be that—

to serve him. To please him. To be exactly what he wants.

You don’t think anymore.

You can’t.

Not when his voice is in your head,

wrapping around your thoughts like velvet,

pulling you deeper.

Stripping you down.

Until there’s nothing left but obedience,

and the perfect, helpless bliss

of becoming whatever he needs.

[obeliskofonyx]

I don't want to break you. No. 

I want to dismantle you.

I want to take you apart inch by inch. 

To see your mind slip away as you sink under the ocean of my words. 

To see you surrender to me, knowing I am going to make it hurt so terribly. 

Trusting me to give you the agony you so clearly need. 

Transformed into something blithely honest, trusting, letting me paint whatever picture I want for you to believe. So that my words are ever so powerful. Influential. Binding. 

I want to apply my words like a surgeon applying a scalpel. With clinical, analytical precision. I want to see you *writhe* under my careful attention. To cleave through you. 

I want to drink in the petrified look in your eyes as I make you look me in the eyes. Not allowed to squirm or fidget, not allowed to look away. Even as I peel away the carefully crafted masks, past the polite layers, into the soft, yielding parts of yourself. The ones you so cleverly hide from others. The ones that hurt to acknowledge. 

Past even that. My words like probing daggers, finding the things you hate about yourself. The wounds. The echoes of hurts never quite forgotten. I want to see that smile you so proudly try to hold up *crack*, along with the rest of the facade. The overwhelming tears threatening to drown you. The terror and distress now obvious, even without me having to compel honesty. 

The knowledge that it’s not over. That there are other lines. That I merely sliced along one seam. That what I found is just *one* nerve ending, a particular point of agony. That I’m going to trace my words over it and follow it, to find *more*. 

Because of course there’s always more. One exposed vulnerability tied to another. We’re going to follow them all, until we have a navigational chart. A map. A full understanding of all the delicious ways to make you cry, and beg, and drive you from even the ability to form words. So that we can chart a route from agony to suffering, and from distress to surrender.

I am going to disassemble you. One weakness at the time. 

Because there is such sweet surrender in being cut apart. 

And then ever so tenderly put back together. 

Reminded that the pain was desired. 

That you were desired. 

That you were seen, and in being seen, appreciated. Liked. Enjoyed. 

That you showed both trust and vulnerability. 

That your suffering was truly and fully enjoyed and savored. 

That I am ever so grateful you shared this with me. 

And that we will do it again, and again, and again.

[obeliskofonyx]

My owner was deep inside me, moving in and out. Each motion sent waves of pleasure through my body, building, rising, pulling me closer and closer to the edge.

Do you want to cum?

"Yes… yes… please!"

No, you don’t. He slowed down, still inside me, his voice calm, certain. You're just confused.

"I… I.. but—" I whimpered, my body shaking with need

Shhh. Breathe.

I breathe in, feeling my will weakening

You don’t want to cum… do you?

"I.. no..?"

Of course not. His voice was silk and smooth. You want to feel this pleasure, to stay right here, don’t you?

"I… yes…"

Say it.

"I don’t want to cum."

Good girl. Again.

"I don’t want to cum… I don’t want to cum… I don’t want to cum…"

My head was spinning as the pleasure rose higher, his movements deepening

"I don’t wanna cum… I don’t wanna cum…"

That’s it.. Just like that.. His fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me closer as the pressure was built, higher and higher.

"I don’t wanna cum… I don’t wann—"

And then—he did.

[obeliskofonyx]

I want to surrender to you. 

To have your soft words in my ears, like your hand stroking my hair. 

To have you pull the thoughts from my brain. 

Leaving me mindless. Empty. Hollow. Receptive. 

Allowing you to put *whatever you want* in there instead.

I want you to have access to it all.

My vulnerabilities. My weaknesses. The things that make me wince. 

To amuse you with my neediness. To sit there, dazed, confused, lost. Utterly mindless, submitting to your will, ensnared by your power. To be a simple toy at your beck and call. 

Do you feel like hurting me? Seeing how far you can stretch me, how much I’ll let you twist me into knots. Enjoying my tears with that sharp, amused, smile. Discovering just the limit of my tolerance. Taking me just past it, because I’ll do it for you. Because you can make me do that. 

Or perhaps you want to see the depths of my obedience. To have me so lost in my need to please you that thoughts are impossible. That I will do *whatever* you ask of me just to have you praise me. That I will kneel and offer up the words you need to destroy me, just so you can hear you say that I did a good job. Becoming my center of gravity, just because you can. 

Maybe you feel like you want to see how my need can be used against me? What lust will make of me, leaving me shivering, mindless, eager, totally and utterly gone. Wanting you. Needing you. Wanting to touch. Being kept so shackled by that need that I just moan blankly, not even coherent enough to hope for relief. 

Please. I beg you. Let me surrender to you. Be your plaything. Your toy. Hypnotize me. Erase my thoughts. Reach deep within me and do whatever you most desire. Watch me melt and disappear under the power of your words, the weight of your dominance, the pure blazing fire of your hotness. Because I want it. I crave it. I need it. Nothing else will do. No one else is worthy. 

Let me surrender to you. 

[obeliskofonyx]

Sometimes the real fun is in the mask, isn't it? You know I'm kind. I'm responsible. I care. Obviously. You trust me. Or we wouldn't have gotten here. You're too good of a judge of character, too clever, to have let someone actually evil in. Which is why you can play like this. Really let me in.

But I wear the mask so well, don't I? When I smile like that. When my intent sharpens. When I say "you can't resist me at all, and that is a *mistake*" with menace it's almost believable. It causes that thrill of terror at your core. A small voice wondering "what if?". It's silly of course. Hypnosis is a consensual state. You could snap out of it at any point if you wanted. You *choose* not to. Because you trust me. Because you enjoy it. Yeah, you are *totally* in control here. Even as I get mean. Even as I show you I can control your feelings, make you recall painful moments. Enhance your shame. That your limbs are not your own. Your own hands betraying you. Maybe it's when your hand wraps around your neck that you feel the first thrill of *real* fear. Or maybe it's when you find yourself sharing your innermost weaknesses—the ones you kept *so* cleverly hidden, without me even prompting. You want it to stop. You try to say something. To snap out of trance. But you... don't want to. Not really. Right? You trust me. You've never wanted to. Why would you ever want to? That doesn't make sense, something about it is confusing.

Maybe you question for a second if that thought is your own. Maybe you recall my cruel smile and me telling you to forget. Or maybe you don't. Why would you want to remember after all? You like being good and I asked you not to. You trust me. You want to be good for me. Right? You don't want to resist. Not really.

Too late now, you realize that what you put your trust in was a mask. You can't stop me as I take you to heights of agony, as I wrap you in ecstasy. I make your mind crumble in my hands and turn the shards into jagged daggers. Your defenses become inward facing barbs as you sob for me, until sobs stop and you can't even think of stopping me at all. Because your mind is not fully your own. You let me in willingly, invited me in really. You gave me just enough. Just enough was too much. Now, you're mine. To hurt. To enjoy. To exploit.

Maybe I'll even put you together the way I found you after. If I feel generous.